


For You I've Waited All These Years

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shireen Baratheon's life, her relationship with her father and coming to the slow realisation that she is not the only one he has grown to love...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Four

**Author's Note:**

> This messes with the timeline a teeny bit but nothing too damaging I don't think.   
> Title stolen from Coldplay

Shireen Baratheon is four years old.

Shireen doesn’t like King’s Landing, but Mother said they needed to come and see Father for a little while. Shireen preferred Dragonstone – she liked the noise of the sea when she was trying to sleep. From her room in Father’s tower all she could hear were people; people laughing, people calling, people screaming. The screams scared Shireen more than the storms at home ever did. 

Maester Cressen said she had been born during a storm, the fiercest storm of the season, when the wind howled in the towers and the rain rattled against the shutters, and so storms would never be able to hurt her. Shireen liked that story, and she wished Maester Cressen had come to King’s Landing with them, because then she would have a friend. Patchface was there, but he didn’t have stories or games and he was just as scared of the castle as she was.

On this night, Shireen was curled up in her bed with the blanket pulled over her head. It wasn’t actually time to sleep, but she was hiding from the angry voices of Mother and Father and nursing the bruises that they were talking about. She had that day gone to look for her cousins Myrcella and baby Tommen, hoping that they had finally come back to the city with their mother. She liked Myrcella – the girl was always friendly and always wanted to play, and Tommen was just big enough to toddle after them and start to join in. They had been away for a long time though, with the Queen. When Shireen asked why, Mother had pulled a face and changed the subject. When she couldn’t find her younger cousins Shireen had, in desperation for company, found her older cousin Joffrey who had stayed in King’s Landing with his father. Joffrey was nine, and big for his age, but he consented to play with her a little while before he got bored and fetched two wooden practice swords from the armoury. One thing had led to another, and the game ended with Ser Barristan Selmy carrying Shireen up to Stannis’ chambers and Joffrey being led away by his angry uncle, Tyrion. Mother wasn’t happy at all when Ser Barristan told her what had happened and she spent the whole rest of the day waiting for Father.

Mother often shouted lots; at the servants, at Patchface, at Shireen, but Father hardly ever did. He just went quiet and growled if you spoke to him. Shireen didn’t like him shouting now. It sounded wrong.

From under her blanket, Shireen heard the click of the door. She pulled the cover down to see who was there.

“My lady?”

“Davos?” she whispered, “What are you doing here?”

Davos was a nice person. Shireen had known him as long as she could remember, and she liked him very much. She sat up to look at him properly.

“My lady, I thought you might like to come and watch the ships with me for a little while. Just until your parents are finished…talking.”

“Yes please!” she exclaimed, slipping out of bed and picking up her cloak. 

“Can you help me, Ser Davos?” she asked politely, “I can’t do up the pin myself.”

“Of course, my lady,” he said, bending down and doing up the fastening. He smiled at her, a smile like her Father never smiled, and she reached up to take his hand. Davos always had warm hands, even the one with the broken fingers, and he’d let her hold that one if she ever asked. This time though she took the other one and together they walked out to the ships. Davos talked to her for a while about sails and wind and waves and then he lifted her up to sit on a wall and sat down next to her. 

“My lady, why did you go and look for your cousin today?”

“Because Myrcella and Tommen are still away and I wanted to play with someone. Patchface is scared of the castle.”

She looked up and found Davos looking at her. He wasn’t smiling but she wasn’t scared. Davos was never angry, even when he was sad.

“Why didn’t you stop the game when he started to hurt you?”

She shrugged and pressed herself closer to his side, appreciating the warmth, “There’s no one else. If I made him stop he wouldn’t play anymore.”

Davos sighed and rested his left hand, the broken one, on his knee. She reached out and picked it up gently, looking at his fingers. He let her, and then he spoke.

“My lady, I know that Prince Joffrey is the only person you know, but you are allowed to tell him to stop if he hurts you. Friends don’t hurt you on purpose.”

“I know,” she said, prodding gently at the stump of his ring finger, “And next time I will be more careful. Father said Myrcella is coming home soon anyway. Ser Davos, how did you hurt your hand?”

She looked at him again, and he had a funny smile on his face. She hadn’t seen that one before. His whole face looked different, like he was lost somewhere far away.

“Ser Davos?”

He shook his head and cleared his throat, “I hurt it a long time ago, when I was young and stupid. I learned my lesson though.”  
She didn’t ask anymore, just held his hand and leaned on his shoulder. Eventually, when they could see all the stars, Davos said it was time they went back before her mother started to worry. Shireen was tired though, and Ser Davos scooped her up in one arm and carried her all the way back. When they got there, Mother and Father hadn’t even noticed that she was gone. Father thanked Davos and allowed him in to carry Shireen to her bed. Mother came in after he had gone and kissed her goodnight, but Father went out and didn’t come back.

As she fell asleep that night, Shireen secretly wished that Ser Davos was her father instead.


	2. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think people like this! Thank you for all the kudos anyway :)

Shireen Baratheon is seven years old and she thinks she might have made a friend.

Shireen and Mother spend less time in King’s Landing and more time at Dragonstone. Father’s routine doesn’t change and he says Uncle Robert needs him, so Shireen sees him even less than before. 

On one of his rare visits home, Shireen watched his arrival from her window. He was riding in a large group, but she could still pick him out easily. Head bowed, mounted on a beautiful, dappled grey stallion, Father looked sad. Father always looked sad, when he wasn’t angry. Shireen often wondered why. At his side, Ser Davos leaned closer and said something. Father still didn’t raise his head.

Shireen ran down to meet them as they came in the gates, and watched as the men dismounted. She saw a boy only a few years older than her get down from a pony and crept nearer, curious. The boy looked familiar but she wasn’t sure why. She was sure she didn’t know him. Ser Davos turned around then and saw her, clapping the boy on the shoulder and leading him over to her.

“My lady, how are you?”

“I am very well, Ser Davos,” she said, remembering her manners like Maester Cressen had taught her, “Who is this?”

“This is my son, Devan, my lady. He is learning to squire for your father.”

“My lady,” the boy whispered, bowing nervously. She knew then where she knew him – he looked just like his father, right down to his grey eyes.

“Devan,” she said, “I am very pleased to meet you. Welcome to Dragonstone.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

Maester Cressen, who had come out to greet his lord, heard the exchange and nodded approvingly at her. If Father had heard, he gave no indication at all, fixing his blue eyes on Shireen. 

“Take Devan on a tour of the castle, Shireen,” he said gruffly, “Show him everything before dinner.”

“Yes, Father,” she said meekly, “Devan, please follow me.”

The boy glanced nervously at his father, who nodded gently and pushed him in her direction. Shireen decided to show him all of the boring things first and then take him up to the top of the tower so he could see her favourite view. He listened politely as she took him through the kitchens and the stables and the sleeping quarters and the Great Hall, saying nothing except when she asked him a question. Shireen had never met a boy who was shy before, apart from baby Tommen, but she always thought that was because he was so little. She thought boys were all meant to be like Joffrey. 

Eventually they got to the top of the tower and stood next to each other looking over the battlements at the sea, stretching far into the distance.

“Do you like the castle, Devan?” she asked.

“I do, my lady. It’s just like I imagined a castle is supposed to be. The Red Keep doesn’t seem like a proper castle to me. This one does.”

“That’s what I think too!” she exclaimed, “Sometimes I pretend that the stories Maester Cressen tells are about this castle and not the ones he says they are. Do you like stories?”

He nodded enthusiastically.

“They’re my favourite thing.”

“Mine too.”

They smiled at each other, Devan a little less shy than he had been a moment before, and then looked back out to the sea.   
“Do you like my father?” Shireen said suddenly, unable to control herself, “I like your father. He’s very kind.”

“Yes he is,” Devan said thoughtfully, his eyes still on the horizon, “And I do like your father. He has never been cruel to me. It’s just that sometimes he seems very –”

“Sad,” she finished for him.

“Yes. And he’s angry because he’s sad. My father said that to me once, after Lord Stannis had an argument with the king and then shouted at him.”

“I thought no one else ever noticed,” Shireen said, “I thought I was the only one.”

“You’re not,” Devan assured her, and then the bell rang for dinner and they scampered down the stairs to go their separate ways to get ready. 

A little later Shireen watched jealously as Ser Davos made certain Devan had everything he needed and still managed to hold a conversation with her father. It must have been a good talk because, for the briefest of moments, Father smiled. He actually smiled. She watched him curiously for the rest of the meal, wondering exactly what Ser Davos could possibly say that her father liked so much, but it didn’t happen again. 

When it was time for bed, she asked Maester Cressen if she could have her story downstairs by the fire instead of in her room, so that Devan could come and hear it too. The boy arrived a few moments later and sat on the thick rug next to her, gazing up at Maester Cressen with the same look he had had when he looked out at the sea. The story was a good one, one that Shireen had heard before but Devan hadn’t, and he asked the maester lots of questions. When it was time for him to go he bowed again and ran from the room, a big smile on his face. Maester Cressen walked her up to bed and tucked her in, kissing her forehead.

“Goodnight, my little lady.”

“Maester Cressen?” she chewed on her lip, “Why is my father sad?”

The old man looked startled at her question and for a minute she thought he was going to tell her to go to sleep and stop asking silly questions. Then he spoke.

“Your father has a lot to think about, as great men often do. That’s all.”

“He’s not sad because of me, is he?” she said, the thought suddenly occurring to her. She reached up and touched the cold, grey skin on her face. 

“No, my lady,” the maester said, his old eyes wrinkling up, “He’s not sad because of you. He loves you.”

Shireen wasn’t sure that she believed him, but she didn’t know what else to say so she nodded and curled up on her side. Maester Cressen kissed her again and then left quickly, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Did Father really love her? Shireen thought about it and knew she wasn’t sure. Father had never told her that he loved her and he never laughed with her at dinner like Davos did with Devan. If doing things like that were the signs that someone loved you, then Ser Davos was the only person that her father loved. But that was silly, because Davos was only a knight and he was only her father’s friend. Father must just show it in a different way that she hadn’t worked out yet.


	3. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the timeline begins to change a tad but to be honest the changes are so small you probably won't even notice :D Thanks for kudos and comments so far!

Shireen Baratheon is nine years old, and her world is being turned upside down.

War has come to Westeros and it is not like the war in the stories that Maester Cressen used to tell her and Devan. Those stories were full of brave knights and dragons and magic, but really war just seemed to be about everything changing at the same time.

First Uncle Robert died and Father came home, and then Mother told her that she wasn’t allowed to think that Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen were her cousins anymore, because they weren’t. Nobody told her why and Devan didn’t have any more ideas than she did. All they knew was that her Father had decided he should be king instead of Joffrey and lots of people agreed with him.  
Then the Red Lady came and Mother told Shireen she wasn’t allowed to pray to the Seven anymore. She had to pray to the new Red God, because he was the real god. Shireen did as she was told; the Seven had never answered her prayers anyway, but that didn’t mean she liked the Red Lady. When she came Maester Cressen was very upset because he loved the Seven and then one morning he just wasn’t there anymore and Mother told her that he had died in his sleep. The Maester was old and Shireen knew that old people died all the time, but she still cried that whole day. Devan found her up in the tower looking out to the sea and he rubbed her back, looking miserable.

“Why did he have to die?” she asked him, “Why?”

“He was old,” Devan said dully, “He just went to sleep, that’s all.”

Something in his voice made her look sharply at him and his face flushed red, his eyes looking determinedly away from her face. He sounded like he had a secret.

“What happened?” she asked.

“He was old,” the boy repeated, his jaw clamped shut, “Old men die, my lady.”

After that the Red Lady was around even more. Ser Davos didn’t like her, Shireen could tell, which was strange because she had always thought Ser Davos liked everybody. She had never seen him tense up around someone like her father did, or look at someone like he wished they would just disappear but he did with the Red Lady. Sometimes he even argued with Father about it, when they thought no one else was listening. 

The only good thing that happened was that her cousin Edric Storm came to live with them, so when Devan was busy she always had someone to play with. Edric was a lot like Uncle Robert, loud and boisterous, but not mean like Joffrey so she and Devan liked him just fine. He had been living with Uncle Renley, but then Father and Uncle Renley fell out and Uncle Renley was killed by one of his guards and it was decided Edric would be safer at Dragonstone. 

Then the worst thing happened. It was time for Father to go and fight, and he would of course take all his men with him, Davos and Devan included. On the day they set sail Maester Pylos told her and Edric that the fleet would take five days to get to the Blackwater and then they would fight for King’s Landing. One early evening, five days later, Mother got a message at dinner. Shireen watched her as she read it and knew, she just knew, that the fighting would start that night. She knew enough stories about wars to know that not all the men she had watched sail away would come back.

Mother put her to bed herself and sat on the edge for a while.

“They are going to start fighting tonight, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” the woman replied, her lips pursed, “But they have the Red God and justice on their side, so they will be sure to win.”

Shireen wasn’t sure that was how war worked but it was no good arguing with Mother about the Red God because she never listened. Instead she accepted her mother’s kiss and then lay back in her bed staring at the ceiling. She wasn’t sure she would sleep knowing what was going on at King’s Landing. The moon moved across the window, casting crazy shadows on the walls, and eventually Shireen got up. Opening the door quietly, so that Mother wouldn’t hear, she tiptoed down the stairs and knocked on Edric’s chamber door.

“Edric, it’s me,” she whispered.

“Come in,” he whispered back. 

He had a candle burning at his bedside and was sat up, his knees tucked up under his chin. He looked more thoughtful than she had ever seen him, and told him so.

“I’m thinking about them,” he said, “Devan’s only a year older than me but he’s allowed to go and I’m not. It’s not fair.”

“That’s why I’m awake too,” she nodded, slipping into the bed next to him and putting her cold feet under the blanket. Almost as though he wasn’t thinking about it, he flung an arm around her and they sat for a while in silence.

“I don’t want Devan to die,” she said. “Or Davos. Or Father,” she added quickly, guilty that it sounded like an afterthought.

“Me neither,” Edric murmured, “But they won’t. Don’t worry. Uncle Stannis is a great soldier. My father always said that. And Ser Davos is the best sailor in the kingdom.”

“I hope you are right.”

Edric was half right, as it turned out. 

When the remains of her father’s army came home, Shireen was horrified to see that so few men had made it through. She watched them through the gates with Edric by her side, bouncing nervously on his heels, and Patchface crouched behind her. The injured were carried in on carts from the ships and she squeaked when she saw Devan among them, a large dressing wrapped around his head, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. Edric hurried off after his friend but Shireen stayed where she was. She needed to see who else was back. Father and his private party came in last, all of them looking exhausted. She scanned the small group for the two faces that she cared about. Father was there, his eyes downcast and his teeth grinding as Mother went to speak to him. Shireen kept looking, and the more she looked the more her heart sunk. 

Ser Davos wasn’t there.

Her feet carried her on their own, before she could stop them. She went right up to Father as though she did it all the time and pulled on his sleeve. He looked down at her, his blue eyes softer than they normally were.

“Father,” she whispered, “Where is Ser Davos?”

His grim expression was all she needed to confirm what she already knew. Before Mother could stop her, she had run. Stopping briefly to look behind her, she saw Father watching her, not listening to anything Mother was saying. Then the Red Lady appeared and he looked at her instead.

Shireen spent that day and all the days until Devan woke up sitting next to him and reading to him from his favourite stories. Once or twice Father came in to see how his squire was and once he even rested his hand on Shireen’s shoulder and listened to her reading for a while. On the afternoon that Devan woke Shireen sent Edric to go and get Father and Maester Pylos. She was allowed to stay in the room and hold Devan’s hand whilst the maester told Devan what had happened to Ser Davos and his older brothers. Father didn’t say anything, just stood in the corner and watched, and only when the grown-ups had gone did Devan start to cry.

That night Shireen couldn’t sleep. She went to check on Devan and stroked his hair when he made a noise like he was having a bad dream and then decided to go to the tower to look out for a while, just in case Ser Davos and all the others weren’t really dead and were coming home across the sea. When she heard footsteps she pulled back behind a pillar, knowing she wasn’t allowed to be up, and was surprised to see Father pacing up and down the corridor. His hair was a mess and he was so pale he looked like a ghost. His head was bowed and his shoulders were hunched, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced backwards and forwards and backwards and forwards. Once or twice he shook his head.

Only once did he look up so Shireen could see his face and she put a hand over her mouth to stop from gasping. He didn’t look like Father in that moment. He looked like Devan, hearing his father was dead. He looked like Edric did sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t looking and he was holding a gift Uncle Robert had given him. He looked like Ser Davos had, when they argued over the Red Lady. He looked like Maester Cressen had, when he was told that they weren’t going to worship the Seven anymore.   
And, most of all, he looked scared.

Shireen didn’t go to the tower.

She went back to bed and, although she had no idea why, she cried herself to sleep.


	4. Ten

Shireen Baratheon is ten years old, and she did not like spending her name day in Eastwatch-By-The-Sea.

Now that she is at Castle Black she likes it better, but tomorrow Father and his army will be riding out to go and win Winterfell and she remembers the last time her father went to battle very well.

After Blackwater, Father spent a lot of his time brooding over the map-table in his solar, moving the pieces backwards and forwards and arguing with his knights, with Maester Pylos, with the Red Lady. No one seemed to able to say the right thing to him, Devan said, and the king was getting more irritated by the day.

Then one morning, as though he had simply stepped outside for a stroll, Ser Davos appeared in the castle. 

Shireen had been chasing Edric through the gardens and then lost him, and when he came panting back inside he said that he had seen Davos. She didn’t believe him, especially when there was no further evidence of it for at least two weeks, but then she saw him for herself, walking towards Father’s rooms with some of the guards. She felt as though her insides were swelling up and she wanted nothing more than to run to him and check he wasn’t a ghost, but something about his face made her stop and carry on peeping around the corner. He was inside for a long time, but then the door swung open and the people poured out, even the Red Lady. When it closed again, only her Father and Davos were still inside. Shireen knew her Father wouldn’t begrudge her this interruption, not this once, not when Davos was back from the dead.

She knocked timidly on the door and was surprised at the lightness of her father’s voice as he said, “Enter.”

She stepped inside as boldly as she dared and stood primly. Ser Davos was looking at her with the old familiar warmth, and even though he was thinner than before and his hair a little longer and greyer, he looked exactly the same. 

“I see that you are well, Ser Davos,” she said carefully, knowing how much Father liked for her to be proper, “I am glad.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Davos said, his lips quirked into a smile, “I am glad that you are well too.”

She shuffled her feet slightly, itching to go to him, and looked up from under her eyelids at her father. He was looking at her and when she made eye contact, he gave the tiniest of nods. Needing no further permission, Shireen ran across the room and threw her arms around Davos’ waist.

“We thought you were dead,” she whispered, “We cried, me and Devan and Edric. We all cried and I sat at the top of the tower in case you were alive and coming home.”

Davos took a deep breath that she felt in the movement of his stomach and then bent down to look her in the eye.

“I am humbled to hear it, my lady. But I’m here now, so you don’t need to cry.”

They were interrupted by another loud knock at the door.

“Enter,” came her father’s voice from somewhere behind her.

Devan and Edric burst into the room and stopped short, staring at Davos like they couldn’t believe their eyes. Devan was vibrating to move closer but he stood respectfully, waiting for his king to say something. 

“Well go on then,” Father said, “Don’t knock him over.”

Shireen pulled away and stood next to her father to allow Devan a chance with his father. Davos had tears in his eyes as he pulled his son close, and she remembered that Devan was his oldest son now. His four brothers had all died in the battle that he thought had also taken his father. Edric was grinning widely, watching the scene, and Shireen looked up at her father. She was surprised to see he was already looking down at her and when she beamed at him he managed the tiniest of smiles. It felt like a victory.

After that things moved quickly. Edric had to go away with cousin Andrew for a little while, but everyone else was heading north. Maester Pylos said that the Wildlings were causing lots of trouble at the Wall and the best thing Father could do, as a responsible king, was go and help protect the realm. It was Ser Davos’ idea – or Lord Seaworth, as she was supposed to address him now. Father had made him a lord and made him his Hand, which Shireen secretly thought was about time because there was no one who was a better friend to Father than Davos. 

She was quite excited to be going north. On the ship she shared a cabin with Mother, and when Devan wasn’t busy they would roam around the decks. Some of the sailors taught them how to tie knots and they showed their new skills off to Davos one evening. He said he was very proud of them for learning so quickly, and he must have told Father because the next time Shireen saw him he asked her to show him as well. He nodded when she was done, which she had come to understand meant that he approved.

She didn’t like being at Eastwatch very much, especially because Devan had gone on to Castle Black with Father and the knights, and Davos had gone to do some negotiating a little further south. When they finally moved on to Castle Black, she was fascinated by the giant that they had there and by the Wildlings with their mad hair styles and fur clothes. They didn’t look so dangerous, any of them, and she wondered why people said they were.

The night before Father was due to ride out, Shireen woke up from a nightmare in the middle of the night. They had heard no news from Davos for a long time and she could tell Father was worried. It seemed cruel that they should have got him back from the dead only to lose him again. She got up and watched the fresh snow falling for a while, and then decided to go and warm herself by the fire in the large room lower down the tower that they used for living in. 

She did not expect to find her father there, sitting in the big chair in front of the fireplace with his chin resting on his clenched fist. She didn’t want to disturb him and tried to sneak away but he heard her and looked around.

“Come, child,” he said roughly, “You’re not disturbing me.”

She walked on tiptoe to the thick rug and sat down at his feet, close but not touching him. Father didn’t like to be touched. They were silent for a long time and then Father said, “Why are you awake?”

“I can’t sleep. I’m worried about Lord Davos.”

He grunted and she looked up at him timidly, “And I’m worried about you, Father. Going away to fight again.”

“Are you?” he said, and he sounded a little bit surprised, “I’m afraid I must. It is my duty.”

“I know,” she replied wistfully, “And a king does his duty, no matter what. I just wish you didn’t have to.”

He shifted in his seat behind her and she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was warm, just like Davos’ and Maester Cressen’s.

“I will not be gone for long,” he said awkwardly, “And you mustn’t worry about Lord Seaworth. He can look after himself.”

She turned to face him properly, wondering what he would do if she tried to sit on his lap. Part of her longed to, longed to have a father who had that kind of affection for her, but she knew that she must not. Instead she took the hand that was resting on her shoulder and held it between her own. He stared at them for a moment and then relaxed slightly, letting out a breath. 

“I’ll look out for you every day until you come back,” she promised.

“Thank you,” he said, “I’ll try to send you a raven.”

When there was nothing else to be said, she lay down next to the hearth and watched the fire. Father stayed in his chair and she listened to his breathing and the next thing she knew, she was waking up the next morning in her bed with the knowledge that this time there was no Davos to have carried her up. Turning, she saw a note resting on the cabinet addressed to her. It was in a hand that she didn’t recognise, awkward and tightly wound.

_Shireen_ , it said, _Watch out for me, as you promised. I shall be watching for you. Father._

It was the first letter he had ever written to her.


	5. Twelve

Shireen Baratheon is twelve years old, and for her twelfth name day her father gave her a kingdom.

Well, the promise of a kingdom anyway. Father had come back victorious to Castle Black, and he brought the full force of the North with him to beat back the White Walkers. Then Lord Davos came with a boy a few years younger than herself who claimed to be the long dead Rickon Stark. Davos was convinced, and so Father was too, but it took the tears in the eyes of the Lord Commander, Jon Snow, to confirm to the Northmen once and for all that the little boy was who he said he was. 

No one really knew what to do with the boy. He came with his guardian, Osha, and he seemed to have taken to Davos –“I’ve never met a child who didn’t”, Father had said sardonically when Rickon refused to speak to him – but no one else could get close to the angry little boy. He’d spend hours at the bedside of the Lord Commander, who was recovering from an attack, and then disappear for hours more. One day Shireen found his hiding place down in the cellar beneath the rookery. 

“Go away,” he spat, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk either,” she said, sitting down and picking up one of the old books, “I just want to read some stories.”

He glared at her but said no more, watching as she turned the ancient rustling pages with a scowl on his face that made him look mean. She didn’t think he was mean though. Davos didn’t like people who were mean. So she just sat there and then did the same the next day and the day after that and the day after that until Rickon came and sat next to her and peered at the books she was reading.

“I can’t remember how to read,” he whispered, “I started to learn once but then everyone left and I forgot.”

“I can remind you, if you like.”

“Yes please.”

That night they went to dinner together in Father’s tower and Rickon sat next to her and laughed when Devan said something funny. No one said anything, but Shireen caught Lord Davos’ eye and he raised his eyebrows. She just went right on eating her soup, a secret grin on her face.

Lord Davos and Father, and the other northern lords, had been talking for a long time when they finally decided on their plan, but it took some extra talks, long hours with just Father and Davos shut up in the King’s Tower, before they knew exactly what they were going to do. No one seemed to mind; it looked like these lords had more respect for Father’s companions that the ones in the Stormlands had. 

A year and a half later, King Stannis Baratheon, The First of his Name, was crowned in King’s Landing.

Shireen remembered the day of the coronation, and thought she always would until the day she died. Lords and ladies from all over the Seven Kingdoms came to swear fealty to Father and Shireen got to stand at his side. There was a gap, where Mother should have been.

Shireen missed her desperately. Queen Selyse had believed, believed so fervently, in the Red God that she began to say she couldn’t feel the cold, and took to wandering outside in the snow late at night. They found her one morning, in only a dress, frozen to death at the top of the Wall. Losing his wife had done something to Father that Shireen couldn’t explain; she knew that he had never loved her but he was angry, and one day soon after the Red Lady was gone. Simply melted into the night, some of the men said. 

So Shireen stood to one side of Father and Lord Davos to the other, and then Father chose his council. His Hand was, of course, unchanged and then there was Ser Justin Massey – now lord – who had proved so valuable; Wylis Manderley, in place of his father who had proved so loyal; Maester Pylos; Ser Jon Stark, who used a crutch since the attempt on his life; Cousin Andrew who Lord Davos said had proved his honour and worth in protecting Edric; Maege Mormont who helped rally the North and young Arianne Martell from Dorne, the kingdom that had proved the tipping point in the scales when they changed allegiance. Father knew who his new friends were.

And his Kingsguard – five warriors, including Alysane Mormont who was the Captain, and two newly knighted boys who he trusted the most; Ser Devan Seaworth and Ser Edric Baratheon, both of whom would have followed him off the edge of the world if he commanded it. Some people whispered, of course they did, that the new king’s council was more criminal and bastard-born-made-good than any such gathering had a right to be. Father silenced them all with a look.

“Lord Seaworth has spent too many of these last years away from my side,” Father said, when Shireen told him what some people said, “Would that I could send these whisperers away instead.”

Father worked hard in those early months. He installed more new friends in important positions; another Stark, the Lady Sansa, appeared undamaged at the end of the war and was named Warden of the North until Rickon was old enough to take the role himself. Edmure Tully was given control of the Riverlands on the strength of his relationship with loyal Winterfell. The lords of the Vale, concerned only with installing little Robin Arryn in his rightful place agreed to help with issues of food in return for being left to their own devices. Food was important, for winter had come to Westeros and people needed to eat. The fortunes of Casterley Rock and Highgarden were their salvation; the Tyrells had fled and the Lannisters…well, Shireen didn’t know what had happened to them but there were none of them left.

None except Myrcella and Tommen, anyway.

Shireen had overheard that conversation between Father and Lord Davos, peering through the curtains from the balcony where she had only gone for a moment to look out across the city. Trapped, she couldn’t help but listen and see.

“Your grace, for the sake of all the innocents killed in this damnable war, I’m begging you, please let them live. Prince Doran has said he will take them in Dorne and keep them. They will never be able to do any damage as his prisoners.”

“Why should I spare them?” Father said, pacing up and down, “Would Cersei have spared Shireen if the tables had been turned?”

“I doubt it, your grace, and surely that answers your question. You are not Cersei Lannister and you never will be.”

“I almost was though once,” Father said, and his eyes met Davos’ and they stared at each other for a long time, “The only time you ever defied me, my onion knight. What makes you think I am not that man now?”

“You weren’t that man then, your grace,” Davos murmured, “And if I have to take to my knees to prove to you that you are not, then I will.”

Shireen had no idea what they were talking about but she almost gasped when Davos moved as though to actually do as he threatened. Father shook his head sharply and put a hand out to prevent Davos from kneeling.

“You of all people don’t need to do that, my lord Davos,” he sighed, “And you are right. The children shall live and Doran shall have his prisoners. Arrange an escort for them to leave on the morrow. I want nothing more to do with them.”

Later when Shireen told Edric and Devan what had been said and wondered what the men had been talking about, Edric told her not to worry, that Myrcella and Tommen were no relations of theirs and they were lucky to be alive at all. Edric beamed when he included himself in the Baratheon family, and she didn’t think Father would ever know the greatness of the gift he had given his nephew the day he legitimised him.

Then again, Father did nothing by accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't ask me complicated questions about politics and how they got to be in this situation because I can guarantee I have no idea :) 
> 
> This is just the way I would like things to work out ;)


	6. Twenty Two

Shireen Baratheon is twenty two years old, and her father has finally achieved what Uncle Robert never could.

The joining of Houses Baratheon and Stark happened one year ago today, when she was married to Rickon in the sight of the Old Gods. As the princess and the heir to the throne, Father wouldn’t let her take the name or the colours of her husband. Her bridal cloak was brand new, with the yellow, black and stag on one half and the black, white and direwolf on the other. Rickon didn’t mind, even offered to take the new sigil as his own, but Father wouldn’t let him.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” he’s said, “I saw what happened the last time it was in different hands.”

The wedding took place at Winterfell, a small nod to the groom that Father was prepared to allow, and the haunting beauty of that melancholy place made it seem to Shireen that all her childhood stories had come true. Lady Sansa, working so hard to make it seem once more a home for herself and her brother, seemed to have remembered something of them as well. None but the hardiest blooms could survive in the North but with those which could she had filled the courtyards and the gardens. The Great Hall, rebuilt, was hung with breath-taking tapestries from Essos and the corridors had more of the same. There was warmth, people said, that was unusual to find north of the Riverlands. 

Sansa showed Shireen the Godswood the night before the wedding, beautifully turned out like the rest of the castle. Before they left, Sansa knelt before the Heart Tree.

“May I join you?”

“Of course,” Sansa said softly, indicating Shireen should kneel, “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”  
“I do.”

“I didn’t see it when I was young,” Sansa sighed, “The only one of my siblings who did not. It pleased my mother but never my father. I didn’t realise how much it hurt him until long after he was gone.”

Shireen didn’t know what to say, so she just nodded. Luckily, a response didn’t seem to be entirely necessary. Sansa carried on as though she wasn’t even there.

“I understand them now. They are simple and natural and so old. Sometimes-”

She faltered, eyes downcast.

“Please,” Shireen breathed.

“Sometimes,” Sansa said slowly, “I can hear my brother’s voice in the rustling of the wind in the leaves. Bran’s voice. Exactly the same as the day I last saw him.”

“That’s-”

“Stupid, I know. Wishful thinking.”

“Forgive me,” Shireen said, “I was going to say that’s beautiful. Like a living dream. Like a song.”

“I used to like songs once,” the older woman said, standing to brush her skirts, “Perhaps I haven’t forgotten as much as I thought I had.”

The wedding was simple, elegant; Shireen remembered little except how Father said nothing when she appeared in her gown but that when she threaded her arm through his he rested the hand of his other arm possessively over hers. She remembered Rickon’s wild red Tully hair had been tamed for the occasion, and that his brother Ser Jon stood so proudly behind him and handed him the bridal cloak. She remembered how Father said the words expected of him almost curtly but then that he stood back and exchanged a look with Lord Davos that she wasn’t to understand until many years later.

She remembered how Rickon’s lips felt on hers.

After the wedding, her husband spent much of his time in the capital. He had a willing castellan in his sister who was also readily accepted by his lords, and could afford to spend stretches of time away with his wife. She was busy of course, learning the business of court but she never had to worry about Rickon. He was invited to the Small Council often, and he had friends in Devan and Edric, and his brother. His old companion Osha still followed him everywhere.

“How are you feeling, my lady?” Osha asked Shireen suddenly one evening, when they were sat by the fire.

“Very well thank you,” Shireen said, wondering where the question had come from, “Why do you ask?”

“You need to speak to the maester,” Osha said mildly, “You’re pregnant.”

The wildling woman turned back to the fire, leaving Shireen gaping in a way Father would never have approved of. The next day she called Maester Pylos and he confirmed what she already knew.

Rickon was overcome, the grin on his face enough to give away the news to anyone who cared to look. That evening, they called on the king in his chambers. Lord Davos was there too, the two men sat side by side in front of the fire. Lord Davos had a book propped open on his lap, a sight Shireen never tired of. She remembered listening at the door with Devan as his father learned, the process so familiar to them as children sounding positively painful to an adult. It had made her proud, in as much as a child can be proud of an adult. It looked as Lord Davos had been reading aloud to Father as they warmed themselves by the flames.

“Your grace,” Rickon was saying, “We have some news for you.”

Davos closed the book, his eyes flickering towards Shireen. He knew. Father wasn’t so perceptive.

“Well? What is it?”

“I’m with child, Father,” she said, kneeling down in front of him, “Maester Pylos thinks it might be twins.”

She expected no big reaction from Father and in one way she wasn’t disappointed. He said nothing, just stared at her with those large eyes as though he had never seen her before. Then, very slowly, he leaned forwards and kissed her forehead.

“Congratulations,” Davos said smoothly, his warm voice easing any trace of awkwardness from the room. He clasped a hand on Rickon’s shoulder and smiled broadly, “All my congratulations, son.”

Father still didn’t say anything as Shireen stood up and accepted Davos’ embrace but he did nod at his son-in-law before turning back to the fire. Rickon knew his king well enough by then to not feel slighted by the reaction, and by the time the news had spread to the whole court it didn’t matter that Father couldn’t tell them what he was thinking.

Eight months later, Shireen birthed first a boy and then, a moment later, a girl. The boy had a shock of red hair and the girl a few thin strands of black, and they shared eyes a shade of blue halfway between Rickon’s light and her dark. Rickon had insisted on being in the birthing room and held her hand the whole time. As soon as the babes were swaddled, Maester Pylos sent for Father.  
Lord Davos slipped into the room behind his king and stood behind the chair he sank in to. Shireen was holding the girl and she held out the little bundle. Father hesitated for a second and then took his granddaughter awkwardly. Shireen watched him with an increasingly familiar flood of affection as he stared down at the little face. Rickon had stood to hand his son to Lord Davos, who handled the task far more admirably than his king, but Shireen only had eyes for her father. There was a look on his face that she didn’t often see – a kind of helplessness in facing this thing that he had little knowledge of.

“They are beautiful, my lady,” Davos said, one of his maimed fingers stroking the boy’s hair, “Have you had any thoughts of names for them?”

“Eddard, after Rickon’s father,” she said softly, “And Cassana, after my grandmother.”

Lord Davos’ eyes flickered towards Father, who in turn had torn himself away from Cassana’s face to look at his daughter.

“Cassana?”

“Yes,” she nodded, “Lord Davos once told me that is what you wanted to name me but Mother wouldn’t let you. Now you can have a granddaughter instead. If you approve.”

The king just nodded and, hesitantly, reached out a finger to stroke Cassana’s cheek as he had just seen Davos do with Eddard. Father had a clumsy kind of gentleness, always had had it, and Shireen hoped that perhaps he would be able to learn something from Davos. As her children’s only grandparent she wanted him to be a figure they could admire and even love, as she had grown to love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to fellow Shireen/Devan shippers but for the sake of this story, this is the way it had to be...


	7. Thirty Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all read the warnings...

Shireen Baratheon is thirty four years old, and she has just watched her father cut out his heart and put it on a smoking funeral pyre.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise really. Lord Davos had been ill for a long time; the maesters said that they had done all they could do. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise, and it wouldn’t have been if not for the king. He hadn’t believed it, that much was clear. He hadn’t believed anything so trivial could truly defeat Davos Seaworth, the man who came back to him from the dead twice. He refused to acknowledge his Hand was ill, ignored it like he had ignored everything he didn’t understand.

“Try not to worry,” Lord Davos has said one afternoon, when Shireen visited him and confessed her fears, “He’ll come around soon enough.”

It was the only time Davos was ever wrong about his king.

Maester Pylos came himself early one morning, banging on her bedroom door. The maester was breathless but she didn’t need him to tell her what was happening.

Lord Seaworth was deathly pale, his eyes fluttering in his sleep and his breathing heavy when she arrived. A moment later Edric appeared with Father and Devan. The king looked at Pylos.

“Well?” he said gruffly, “What is it?”

A look of terror crossed Pylos’ face and he cast an appealing glance to the rest of the room. Devan was frozen, staring at his father, Edric only looking dumbfounded. It was up to her, they seemed to say. It was time to make him understand.

“Father, I’m so sorry.”

He looked sharply at her.

“I think Maester Pylos believes Lord Seaworth is running out of time,” she said softly, her voice catching, “Perhaps it is time to say goodbye.”

“Nonsense,” he snapped, “Complete nonsense.”

He stormed from the room and they were left in a horrible silence broken only by the sound of Davos’ laboured breathing. Devan moved to the bed and took his father’s hand, the grief etched on his face suddenly aging him ten years.

“Can I stay with him, my lady?”

“Of course,” Shireen all but sobbed, “I’m going to talk to Father.”

Edric followed her silently, a man grown suddenly as lost as a little boy. She was glad for his company, even if he made her feel like that little girl she had once been.

Father was in his solar, Lord Davos’ chair stark only in its emptiness. The king was brooding and she could not tell if that was a good sign or not; he only tended to brood when he felt powerless. Shireen went to him and knelt at his feet.

“Father, you must come.”

“I mustn’t do anything,” he grumbled, “Lord Seaworth is the strongest man I ever knew.”

“That might well have been true once,” Shireen said, “But I can assure you it is not so now.”

Something behind his eyes darkened then and his jaw set.

“If what you say is true,” he said, “Then I do not see why I must bear witness. Surely you know enough of me now to see that?”

“Father-”

“My king,” Edric cut in, falling to one knee besides her, “Uncle, please. I beg you to reconsider. Think of your mother and father, our grandparents. Uncle Renley told me of the day they died and how you and my father could only watch. Don’t be so helpless now, Uncle. Ease Lord Seaworth’s passing and your own mind at that.”

The king froze, blue eyes narrowed as he gazed at his nephew. Shireen watched with bated breath; she didn’t know whether it was the mention of his parents or his brothers or that Edric was so very sincere in his speech but he reached something inside of his uncle. The older man’s face gave the tiniest spasm of pain and he turned in his seat.

“I should have you reprimanded for speaking out of turn, nephew,” he said, “Get out, both of you. I shall be along.”

They wasted no time in leaving; Edric caught Shireen’s hand in his own and squeezed it tight. Perhaps they had really grown up after all.

Lord Davos had touched many people, and if Shireen hadn’t known it before that morning, she knew it by the end of the day. Davos awoke, weak as he was, and most of the Small Council and the Kingsguard requested a moment. She didn’t know what was said but her brother-in-law left with tears in his eyes.

Rickon brought the children along nearer the middle of the day – Cassana, Eddard and little Brandon, the unexpected miracle. At twelve the twins knew exactly what was happening but Brandon was quite oblivious. 

“Good morning, my little prince,” Davos said, “And how are you today?”

The four year old talked for a while about his stories and games before he realised that something was wrong and stopped abruptly. Eddard, unable to do anything but kiss Davos on the cheek, picked up his little brother and left in a hurry. Cassana, the more collected of the pair, fared a little better.

“Goodbye, Davos,” she said, her voice strong despite the tears, “We love you. I hope you know.”

Shireen’s own goodbye was a little more dignified, as befitted a princess. Rickon and Davos jested a little, the younger man’s hero worship of the man who saved his life still painfully obvious many years later. They shook hands, Rickon lifting Davos’ for him because he hadn’t the strength. Edric, his burst of eloquence from earlier in the day seemingly all he had, could only sit there when his moment came. Davos spoke instead.

“Look after them, Edric,” he whispered, “You’re more his son that you’ll ever know.”

Shireen didn’t want to extend her final words to him, didn’t want to cause him anymore pain than he already had.

“At least I don’t have to watch for you from the battlements now. I know exactly where you are.”

“That you do princess. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I want to thank you, Davos.”

“Why?”

“For being there, when Father wasn’t. For teaching him everything he needed to know and for being his friend when no one else would be.”

“A pleasure, my lady. I wouldn’t change it.”

She believed him, despite the melancholy on his face. There were secrets she knew she would never be privy to, things she wasn’t supposed to know and never would. She couldn’t hear what Father and Davos came to speak of when the king finally arrived, stalking down the corridor, but she could see from her spot guarding the slightly ajar door, and she saw Father suddenly lurch forwards and press his lips to Davos’. Something about it told her it was something new for both of them and a small part inside of her howled at the unfairness of it all. When Father left he didn’t even notice her.

When the news came from Devan later that night that Lord Davos was gone, she went straight to Father. Carefully avoiding Davos’ chair, she took her familiar seat at her father’s feet. There was silence for a long while. A tentative hand began to stroke her hair but still she said nothing. If he wanted to talk, he would. Anything else would force him into a corner and he could never stand that.

“You do not need to be here,” he said eventually, “Surely your family has more need of you.”

“You are my family, just as much as them, and Davos was your-”

“Alright,” he growled, “Alright.”

He can’t even bear to hear me say it out loud, she thought, No more than he can bear to say it himself.

The funeral was a grand one, all that Lord Davos Seaworth had earned. The people of Flea Bottom - as hard as Davos had worked to ease the burden of those poor people, they were always of Flea Bottom – had never forgotten he was one of their own and turned out in droves with flowers to add to the procession as it made its way through the city.

They had decided, the Small Council and Devan, that Davos would always be a man of the sea, and settled for sending him out to sea on a burning pyre for his last journey. It was reminiscent of those days of the Red God, perhaps too familiar to some, but Shireen knew Lord Davos would have recognised it for the sign of respect that it was. He had never truly lost his faith in the Seven, and so a short service was held in Baelor’s Sept. Then the body was carried to the water on the shoulders of Devan, Edric, Rickon and Steffon, Davos’ youngest son who had come as a representative for his brother who was now the Lord of the Rainwoods. 

Father walked behind them accompanied by Shireen and his grandchildren. He walked as stiffly as ever, if a little slower than he used to, and Shireen walked as closely to him as she dared. He wouldn’t appreciate any sign of weakness in front of the small folk. At the water’s edge, Davos was lowered onto his pyre and Father was hand the torch to light it. His face paled as he lowered the flame, his grip too tight as though somehow he had reason to doubt it.

As the pyre floated out onto the river, the king stood alone. His shoulders had slumped but no one dared go near him. Shireen almost gave up her resolve, but was beaten to it by the only person who had never been given a reason to fear his grandfather. Brandon broke away from Cassana and hurried forwards, taking the king’s hand. He flinched but Brandon held fast and eventually the king relaxed.

On the short walk back to the castle, Father picked Brandon up and carried him, holding him close. Shireen watched in a sort of amazement – her father had never, in her memory at least – done such a thing for her and he’d never held either of the twins beyond their infancy. She caught Brandon’s eye and smiled – the little boy smiled back but he didn’t understand why. Of course he didn’t understand.


	8. Thirty Six

Shireen Baratheon is thirty six years old and her father is finally at peace.

The worst and best thing about her father’s passing was that they had only a few days to prepare. The whole horrible thing wasn’t dragged out as when Davos died, people had no time to brood. It was quiet and it was dignified, just as the king would have wanted it.

Brandon had been the one who realised something was wrong. He spent a great deal of time with his grandfather, was even allowed to sit in Lord Davos’ chair after a while, and read to him just as soon as he learned. When he came running into her solar late one afternoon, his little brow furrowed, she thought perhaps her father had told him off for something.

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

“Grandfather isn’t very well.”

She looked up sharply from her desk, quill poised above the parchment.

“What do you mean?”

“We were reading and then he went very quiet and I thought he was asleep and then when I shook him he looked at me and said ‘Renley?’ and then I came to get you. Mama, who is Renley?”

“Somebody Grandfather knew a long time ago,” Shireen said, blood pounding in her ears as she got hastily to her feet, “Brandon, can you be a big boy for me and go to get Maester Pylos? Bring him to see Grandfather.”

“I will!” Brandon said, running out of the door ahead of her. Shireen hurried towards her father’s rooms, glad that they were so close to her own, and threw the door open. Father was slumped in his chair, gazing at the burning fire, and when she called out to him he didn’t turn his head.

“Father?” she said again, walking over and standing in front of him, “Father, can you hear me?”

He blinked rapidly and, slowly, he looked up at her. For one horrible moment he didn’t recognise her, she could tell, and then his face slipped into something more familiar.

“Shireen? Renley was here. I saw him.” 

“That was Brandon, Father. He looks like Uncle but he is your grandson. Remember? You told me he looks like Uncle Renley used to when he was small?”

“Brandon,” the king said, “My little Brandon. Did I scare him?”

His question was answered in that moment when the little boy came running in dragging Pylos by the hand. He went straight up to his grandfather and put his hand on his forehead.

“You’re warm, Grandfather. I think you should go to bed.”

“I think you might be right,” he said, the relief that flooded his face pleasing Shireen even as she knew that he would never express himself so obviously if he was feeling well. Alysane Mormont, who was on guard outside, came in and helped to move the king to his bed; the fact that he didn’t protest this even the slightest was only another sign that worried her immensely. Once he was settled and comfortable, she sent Brandon to go and play for a while and sat in the corner whilst Maester Pylos performed an exam. The king was lucid enough, answering questions with his characteristic growl, but there was slowness to his speech that she didn’t like in the slightest.

“I have seen this before,” Maester Pylos said, when he was finished with the examination, “A shock to the brain, a build-up of blood somewhere. It is not uncommon in men of your age, your grace.”

 

“Yes,” Stannis said distractedly, eyeing something out of the window instead of looking at the maester, “You may go.”

Pylos shot Shireen a look that begged her to follow him and she did with a growing dread in her gut. The maester shook his head as he turned, his eyes that were starting to fail him squinting up at her face.

“It does not look good, my lady,” he said under his breath, “The king is slow to respond, confused. I think this shock coupled everything else he has been through…I think he may not have very long left. A few days maybe. Often another shock will occur and they never wake up.”

Trying to take in what the maester was saying was harder than she thought, and Shireen collapsed in to a chair.

“Everything else he has been through? What do you mean?”

Pylos looked guilty, a battle going on in his mind showing clearly on his expressive face. He twisted his hands around his chain and bit his lip.

“I should not really tell you, my lady, but you have a right to know, I suppose. He never recovered from the march to Winterfell, not really – a weaker chest than he ever cared to admit to anyone except himself. And the starvation – he spent too many days starving in his life and not enough looking after himself. He never wanted anyone to know.”

“Oh Father,” she whispered, “You stubborn, foolish man. No one knew? Apart from you? Did my mother?”

“No, my lady, your mother never knew. Lord Davos did but then he knew a little of suffering. I think he worked most of it out for himself.”

After that it was mercifully quick. Father was told he was dying. Pylos hadn’t wanted him to know but she knew that he would see through their lies in a second. The king accepted the news well enough; there was even a little relief on his face when he heard.  
Well of course, she thought, He is ready to go, even if we are not prepared to say goodbye.

This time, Shireen couldn’t be present for any of the farewells except her own. She couldn’t bear it. Rickon brought the children once more, all four of them leaving in tears. She wasn’t there when Edric and Devan went to see him, when the new Hand Lord Jon Stark made his final visit. She put off her visit until the maester sent a message to tell her it wouldn’t be long, that Father was asking for her.

His face was grey, making the white of the pillows even brighter in contrast, but his blue eyes were bright with fever and more alive than ever. She sat down next to him and reached for his hand, without even thinking. He didn’t recoil, even squeezed her fingers gently. She didn’t want to cry but that simple gesture almost undid her, even before anything had been said.

“Why didn’t you name Brandon after Robb Stark?” he said suddenly, “Surely it makes sense to have named him after Rickon’s eldest brother?”

She was wrong footed by the irrelevant question and took a moment to answer, shrugging untidily.

“Robb Stark was named after Uncle Robert, you know that. We didn’t want to hurt you, Father. Rickon loved Bran just as much and it is just as good a name.”

“I thought that might have been why,” he said, “You shouldn’t have concerned yourselves.”

It was such an unexpected start to the conversation that Shireen found she had nothing to say, and so she didn’t. Instead she looked hard at her father’s face, trying to memorise every little thing that she had come to love about him over the long years. Perhaps she had been in denial before but she didn’t remember when he suddenly got so old; his hair grey, almost white; his face lined from years of sadness and anger and war; his strong body weaker, smaller, thinner as she imagined he had been once when he was so hungry that he ate dogs because Uncle Robert was fighting his war. Shireen had never known hunger, not even in those days at the Wall when it seemed like the world was ending. Father had never let her know what it was to be afraid that you would die for want of a heel of bread. 

And with that thought she was crying, because there was nothing else she could possibly do. Father hated tears, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. A warm hand came up to her face and wiped at her cheeks, lingering on the greyscale as though it was as natural a part of her as any of the rest.

“Do not,” he said, his voice harsh even as his hands were gentle, “Do not, because we must speak and I cannot when you are like this.”

“I’m sorry, Father. This one time I do not think I can do as you wish.”

“You must try. You will be the queen soon, Shireen.”

“I know,” she said, taking a few deep breaths and swallowing the new wave of tears that threatened to overwhelm her, “And this may be the last chance I ever get to be a child again, with my father, and I will take it.”

He shook his head, grumbling under his breath, but let her be. He talked and just allowed her to listen.

“I did not intend for it to end this quickly,” he said, “And there is much you do not yet know. Trust your council. Keep Lord Stark as your Hand, at least in the beginning. He is young but he is wise and will serve you well.”

“I had no intention of changing Hands,” she said, “Jon is the perfect man for the task.”

Her father nodded approvingly, and then said something she did not expect.

“Do not only instruct Eddard in ruling – keep Cassana involved as well. That boy is restless and you may find one day he does not want to be the heir to the throne. Then you’ll need an alternative.”

Shireen already knew this of course, knew that her eldest son had something of the famous Benjen Stark in him, had been too captivated by Davos’ stories when he was young to ever sit still for long. What surprised her was that Father had noticed at all when he seemed for all the world to be above such small nuances of other people’s characters. Was this something she was doomed to learn about him only now, when he was about to leave her for good? New tears threatened and she let them out. Let Father see just how much she really loved him, because she did not know if she would have the strength to say it. 

“You will be a good queen, daughter. You have not let me down, not in all these years. I doubt you will begin now.”

“Thank you,” she said, “And let me say the same. There was once, when I was small, that I wished that Davos was my father. I do not feel that way now. You haven’t let me down either, Father.”

He smiled sadly and rested his head on the pillow, eyes closed.

“I cannot begin to count the times I wished the same thing, when you were young. That you had a father such as Davos who knew how to be a father, how to love you like you deserved. You were a duty I didn’t feel capable of. It took me a long time to realise  
that you weren’t that at all. You were never that.”

That was it, she knew. It was the closest her father would ever get to saying the words out loud.

He slept then and eventually she must have fallen asleep next to him because the next thing she remembered was waking up in the middle of the night and seeing her father’s eyes open, staring at a patch of wall that was just that – only wall. But he was staring, and a tear ran down his cheek and he said, “My onion knight. My Davos. You have come to me again after all.”

And then he was gone, as simply as that. 

She sat with him for a while, physically unable to do anything but hold the hand that was resting near her until it finally grew cold. Pylos crept in towards dawn, a bottle in his hand, and his face dropped when he saw the sight in front of him.

“How long?” he whispered.

 

“A few hours.”

“Was he-”

“It was peaceful,” she said, voice trembling, and despite herself she smiled, “Davos was here waiting for him. Father believed that he was, at least, and that’s all I need to know. He was happy. He smiled.”

Pylos came to stand beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder, “His grace was never one to believe in such things. Perhaps Lord Davos really was here.”

“If anyone could come for Father, it would be him. He loved him, you know. All those years and I never realised and then it was too late to talk about it because Davos was gone and it didn’t seem to matter. He wouldn’t talk about it, anyway.”

Pylos blushed, a slow flush that ran up from under his collar and reddened his cheeks, but he nodded nonetheless.

“I do not have very much experience in that area, my lady, but I think you might be right.”

“It’s not fair,” she said, fresh tears on her face before she even noticed she was crying, “It’s just not fair. Everyone says he was cold, that he didn’t feel a thing, but we all knew that he did. Imagine how much easier his life would have been if everyone knew that he did.”

Pylos was saved having to answer by the appearance of her brother-in-law, who threw aside his stick and knelt awkwardly at his king’s bedside, sadness etched into every line on his face. He took one of Shireen’s hands in his.

“I am sorry, my lady, so sorry.”

“Thank you, Jon. Did you know? About him and-”

“I did. They were happy, my lady, when they were together. Or as happy as they could be, anyway. I do not think either of them regretted those later years they spent in one another’s company.”

“Perhaps they did not,” Shireen sighed, “But I can regret for them. I can regret love wasted. While I am queen, no one will ever be punished for or scared of loving. That is my first command and I make it in the name of my father, the king, and his beloved Hand, and if it is my only legacy then it is a legacy damn well worth having!”

Jon squeezed her hand and got slowly to his feet, nodding all the while.

“You shall hear no protest from me, my queen.”

My queen.

She was queen now.

His gift to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah...that's it :) Thank you all so much for reading, commenting and enjoying - it means a whole lot!
> 
> The end of this chapter was a last minute addition, influenced by Liam Cunningham's character in an episode of the TV police show 'Cracker'. If you are a Cunningham fan I cannot recommend it enough - needless to say, his performance broke my heart and resulted in one of the parts of this story that I am most proud. If you watch the episode (which is on youtube) then I think you will understand what I mean.
> 
> And in other news, if anyone is still talking to me after this I do have a new series planned which will be infinitely less heartbreaking and much more random starring as always our favourite Team Dragonstoners. So yeah...keep an eye out for that.


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